


Such a Good Pupil

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Instruction, Manipulations, Post-Series, Tutelage, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Quiet,</i>” he hisses in her ear and she obliges, biting her lip to stifle her cries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such a Good Pupil

“ _Quiet,_ ” he hisses in her ear and she obliges, biting her lip to stifle her cries.

Petyr laughs, breathless, and rolls his hips upward. He’s being infuriatingly slow tonight, ensuring that every little movement sends a shock through her body, that the rough stone of the alcove wall cutting into her back is just this side of pleasurable. When she says nothing about this deeper thrust he rests his lips on the pulse in her neck and mumbles into her skin, “Good girl.”  


Part of her wants to strike him, the part that wonders how it is he gets her to willingly lift her skirts for him in a corridor. She doesn’t; she understands that it’s not exactly a secure location, even with her husband away, and the last thing she needs is some nosy servant to spoil everything they worked for. 

“I thought you liked it when I talked,” she says in a low voice, and he gives her a wicked grin that she can feel herself mirroring, subconsciously.

“I do,” he replies. One of his hands is braced against the wall and he moves it, slides it up under her skirts to tease her, just light enough for it to be torturous. Sansa grits her teeth and digs her heels into his back, which he only seems to enjoy. It certainly doesn’t stop him from continuing (if she has learned one thing from him over the years, it is his love of talking no matter what the circumstances), “You have quite a talent for it, sweetling, I must say. Filthy girl. But save your words, they’re not part of today’s lesson.”

His words, his experienced hands, the feel and the weight of him—it is almost too much. It makes her completely abandon herself to that _other_ part of her, the one that lets him lead her down this path. The part of her that sent a warm wave of pleasure sliding down her body when he leaned over at the start of dinner and whispered that tonight she would have a lesson, that left her damp and conspicuous, aware of his eyes burning into her, that made her brush her hand over his leg under the table in an effort to _feel_ , counting the seconds alongside the pounding of her heart. The part of her that knows this is wicked and wrong and awful but makes it so she can't help herself, because there is a strange, intoxicating power in all these moments. She is the pupil, and she had been a dutiful one, but as she grew older and really started to _watch_ how he looked at her, how he responded to all her meek little submissive motions, her pleasure began to increase. He could make her shutter with an instruction, but she could command his attention without even a word.

She learned a lot in these lessons. Mostly how _easy_ men could be.

He kisses her and flicks his fingers at the same time, in just the right way, and that’s it—she comes with a muffled cry, biting down onto his shoulder, gripping him hard for support, his laughter in her ears. It’s inelegant, as it always is, but her world is warm, her limbs are heavy, her pleasure unmistakable.

He pulls away, just a bit, to give her a second to rest, and she seizes on the moment to act on some half-formed notion from her sated brain. She pulls away from him, sliding against the wall, her skirts falling back, neat, around her weak legs.

He hits the wall with a loud curse and it’s her turn to laugh, perhaps a bit too loud, and smile coquettishly as she hurries back to her room.


End file.
